


a little more light

by configurations



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Body Image, Fluff, Insecurity, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-23 23:39:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8347321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/configurations/pseuds/configurations
Summary: With each button coming undone Patrick felt the crawling under his skin turn into an itch turn into a scratch, and before he even knew what he was doing he grabbed Pete’s hands to stop him, less than half his shirt unbuttoned. He swallows, clenching and unclenching his fist. Pete frowns, gaze trailing back up to Patrick’s face of discomfort.“’Rick?”And Jesus. Way to let your insecurity kill the mood, Patrick. Jesus Christ.





	

Pete has a type, Patrick notices. One day after years and years of bad timing and brief flashes of Pete and person-of-the-week on his waist after shows and parties, Patrick offhandedly notes that Pete has a type. Most people have a type, of course, Patrick’s type being brunettes and brown eyes, pretty features, someone who can make him laugh. Someone with a bright smile, who could understand him and his music obsession, someone he could easily talk to and be open with. Someone who had godawful fashion sense and endearing horse teeth and a _godforsaken_ haircut permanently plastered onto their forehead. Someone who is so opposite to Patrick in regards to taste and yet could understand him better than anyone else on the planet. Someone who would laugh at all his nerdy references, who’s fiercely loyal and earnest.

Okay, so: Patrick _may_ have a crush on Pete.

Maybe.

Pete’s type, however, is skinny framed scene kids. Slender wrists and visible hipbones through low-slung jeans and crop tops. Petite pointed chins and visible ribcages poking out of their skin.

In other words, Pete’s type was the complete polar opposite of Patrick, as far as he’s noticed. The realization didn’t leave him feeling crushed or sad or anything of the sort; he knows he’s not the most attractive guy around, his pudgy belly and thick thighs and baby fat clinging onto his cheeks not being anyone’s top choice—or even top 10, for that matter. He’s far from being unhealthily overweight, but he’s not too close to being a model in a Topman ad either, so he doesn’t let it affect him too much for the most part. He’s always been on the heavier side, after all. But a small part of him bubbles below the surface at the realization, his skin prickling and stomach dropping. It was wishful for him to think that Pete would reciprocate his feelings in the first place, which was why he seldom ever entertained the idea, but that didn’t stop him from wearing an extra layer for the show that night, the hood of his hoodie pulled down over his eyes despite the venue being a sweltering 90 degrees. 

Which was exactly why Patrick was so shocked years and years later when Pete came barging into his at 2 am, eyes wide and terrified, hands trembling as he confessed to Patrick in the doorframe of his room. Patrick all but dropped the glass of water he’d been holding at the time, the cup hitting the carpeted floor with a thud, water pooling at Patrick’s socked feet and Pete’s bare ones. Patrick barely stuttered out a small, “Me too,” before he had an armful of Pete Wentz pushing him backwards and kissing him fervently. Patrick kissed back too, after a beat of _holy shit Pete’s kissing me_. He tangled his fingers into Pete’s bleached hair, Pete walking them backwards until the back of Patrick’s legs hit the bed and they both fell onto the mattress in a mess of arms and legs. Pete kissed Patrick once more, long and hard, before pulling away and propping himself up to hover over Patrick, brown eyes blown and lips parted, panting. Patrick felt his dick twitch in his boxers. He must have made for a pretty embarrassing sight, with what his hat knocked off and hair tousled, his cheeks surely red from the warmth he felt in them. His lips were parted, breathing hard. He tried not to think about it too hard. His hands were loosely curled around Pete’s neck, but he pulled them away as Pete pulled back to kneel over him, sitting on his thighs. Pete’s hands came up to ghost over the buttons of the black button up Patrick’s still in from the party earlier, too lost in Garageband to bother changing out of it before Pete came tumbling in.

“May I?” Pete rasped, voice low and husky, and Patrick felt a tingle shoot up his spine. A part of him understood the concept of wanting to unwrap someone like they were a present, he himself having done it before in the past, though never on the receiving end of it. It felt weird. He felt his skin crawl, his hair stand up on its ends, but tried to ignore it as he gave Pete a half hearted shrug of his shoulders. Pete lit up and grinned at Patrick like he’d just won the goddamned jackpot, which was just _strange_ , before proceeding to gingerly unbutton his shirt, eyes never leaving Patrick’s body, not even once. With each button coming undone Patrick felt the crawling under his skin turn into an itch turn into a scratch, and before he even knew what he was doing he grabbed Pete’s hands to stop him, less than half his shirt unbuttoned. He doesn’t have performance anxiety when it comes to sex but right then and there under Pete’s earnest and serious gaze Patrick is very acutely aware of the way his entire fucking body is more or less on display for Pete’s eyes to see, and if he adverted eye contact and looked down he’d see all the ways Pete is hard muscle and strength in the areas that he’s not. He swallows, clenching and unclenching his fist. Pete frowns, gaze trailing back up to Patrick’s face of discomfort.

“’Rick?" 

Patrick swallowed. _Oh god. Way to let your insecurity kill the mood, Patrick. Jesus Christ. Quick, you idiot, save the situation before Pete realizes._ He peels his hand away from Pete’s wrists, coming back up to card through his own hair for a bit.

“Um, maybe we could forget about the shirt—It’s kinda cold, honestly, and I’d much rather spend my time on other things than worry if my skin is gonna freeze itself off.” That excuse came out almost halfway decent. He winced internally.

Pete just stared at him.

"We—we don't have to do this if you don't want to, you know," Pete said immediately, his hand reaching out to grab Patrick's earnestly. "I love you—that’s not gonna change, we don't have to do anything if you don't want to—" 

"Jesus, Pete, I want to!" Patrick said, cutting Pete off mid-ramble. Because geez, did he want this. He pulled his hand out of Pete’s grasp to rub at his eyes, his other hand coming up to pull his shirt close. "I just," he sighs, frustrated. Great Patrick. Good going there.

He feels Pete slowly lean in and press his forehead to his own with a soft thunk. "I'm serious, Patrick, we don't have to do anything. I know I have a reputation for making you uncomfortable like, 24/7, but this is something—“

"No, Pete, I just—“

"I'm serious dude, because like—“ and Pete's hand gingerly goes to hold Patrick's where its still clasping the unbuttoned half of his shirt tightly shut, Patrick flinching slightly at the sudden touch, drawing his hand closer to his body on reflex, his grip tightening around the shirt. That's when Patrick sees something in Pete's mind click and Patrick knows that Pete knows. Pete's concerned expression quickly morphs into a gentle one to a frustrated one to a determined one. Patrick's surprised he doesn’t get whiplash.

Patrick doesn’t say anything, because honestly, what is there to say—he’s chubby and pudgy and insecure and he knows it, Pete knows it, its weird how they even ended up in the predicament they’re in currently, all things considered. He looks at the ceiling instead, trying to ignore Pete's gaze boring holes into his skin.

 "Patrick," Pete starts, somewhat tiredly, and Patrick feels a pang of hurt because Jesus, he _knows_ , and—

 And then Pete's hand is on his chin, tilting it to look at him, and Pete's expression is unreadable.

 He pulls Patrick in for a firm kiss.

"Dude, I'll say it a thousand times over if I have to, but I love you for you—I could give less of a shit about how much you weigh, or if you have washboard abs or whatever. I don't give a shit about that. You’re fuckin' beautiful to me," Patrick feels Pete's gaze burning holes into him. He fidgets. "I just want you to be happy, dude." he sighs, thumbs rubbing small circles into Patrick's skin. The thing is— Patrick's happy. It's just, he was and always will be an insecure lil’ dude, even if his confidence improved over the hiatus. He doesn’t hide his face under hats or his body under layers upon layers anymore, but sometimes, just sometimes, under the bright lights of photoshoots or the sudden moments of clarity he has during interviews, he feels his skin prickle and his body go cold. He fidgets and his sentences start to stutter. 

"Besides," and suddenly Pete's breath was right next to his ear, hot and smooth, his hand travelling up and down Patrick's pudgy sides. He suddenly felt a warm palm press itself flat onto the front of his jeans. "It just means I'll have a better grip." Patrick takes a sharp inhale and shudders slightly, grinding upwards into Pete's palm. He laughs, embarrassed.

" _Jesus_ , Pete,"

Pete only replies with a shit eating grin Patrick's all too familiar with for the better part of over a decade. Patrick brings up a hand to card through Pete's bleached blonde hair, Pete humming in response. They stay like that for a moment, Pete leaning into Patrick's touch like an oversized cat.

Patrick hesitates, taking in a deep breath before starting. "The thing is, Pete, I've never really, you know, liked my body and I don't think I'm going to any time soon, if ever—" he says in a single breath before swallowing. Pete just stares, his gaze never leaving Patrick. "And you know me, always as self depreciating as ever," he laughs slightly, a bit forced. "But," he brings Pete's head down, touching his forehead to Pete's the same way he did before. "Thank you. For that. And everything else."

Pete's gaze is nothing short of fond. And also that classic mix of frustration-determination, where he wants to break out into a mini rant but is trying to contain himself. Patrick snorts under his breath, gently poking Pete on the nose where its scrunching up slightly. Pete defies Patrick's expectations and does not in fact go on a mini rant. Pete does, however, goes back to sit on his legs, pulling Patrick up with him so they’re both sitting up on the bed. He holds Patrick's face gently in both his hands.

"Patrick Martin Stumph," he begins. "you are the most beautiful fuckin' dude on this goddamn _planet_ , and I'll spend the rest of my life saying it if it gets you to see it." and Pete says it with such conviction and earnest that Patrick's momentarily speechless and almost, just _almost_ , believes him.

"Well," Patrick starts, feeling his whole face heat up. He hears Pete coo an "awww" under his breath and hits him lightly on the shoulder. "I. You too. I mean, are beautiful. I mean, like, you're the most beautiful dude to me too. Um. And sexy— uh, not to mean that I only love you for your appearance or whatever, I'm just, you know I—" Patrick rambles, feeling his cheeks heat up more and Pete's gaze just gets softer and fonder. Pete silences him with a kiss.

"Yes Patrick, I know what you mean," Pete laughs, burying his head into the crook of Patrick's neck. Patrick feels vaguely embarrassed, but still brings up a hand to pet the back of Pete's neck anyway. 

"Oh, shut up." Patrick grumbles, smiling, all bark and no bite. He lies back down on the bed, pulling Pete down with him. Pete squeaks. 

"I know I was being a total moodkiller, but like do you still wanna—?” Patrick asks, taking one of Pete's hands in his own and bringing it to the front of his shirt, right on top of the button Pete was in the middle of undoing before his mini freakout. Pete blinks, and Patrick internally starts to panic a little, but then Pete's eyes widen and he grins so big Patrick swears his face is gonna split in two. 

"Is it ok if I--? You can do it if you want," Pete asks, hands still where Patrick placed them over his shirt buttons. Patrick starts to feel his skin crawl again, but squashes it down with a firm _not today_. He nods, more sure of himself this time. 

"Yeah, go ahead," he says, before suddenly bringing a hand to the base of Pete's neck and pulling it down gently so his breath ghosts the shell of Pete's ear. "But next time, its my turn." he murmurs, voice going deep and sultry, grinding up towards Pete the same way Pete did to him before, grinning when he hears Pete gasp and stutter out a breath.

"Jesus, 'Rick," he hears Pete say. "You don't know what you do to me, do ya?" and Patrick thinks no, not really, but maybe it doesn’t even matter. He hums in response. Pete's hand goes to continue unbuttoning the front of Patrick's shirt.

"It’s okay though, one day you're gonna see it, I don't care how long it takes," Pete whispers, the earlier determination returning with a vengeance as he plants a hickey on Patrick's neck. Patrick gasps and hazily thinks that maybe one day he will, because honestly, what Pete Wentz puts his mind to he always fucking does it. And besides, they've got time. Patrick laughs where Pete is stuck on the last button of his shirt, brows furrowed in concentration and frustration, and Patrick shoos Pete's hands away to do it himself. Pete chuckles, abashed, rubbing the back of his neck before tipping over to plant another hickey on Patrick's neck. (Pete and his neck obsession, Patrick will never understand, though.)

They’ve got all the time in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry for the cheese ending! and wow i finally finished a fic for once lmao. i hope you guys liked this one. :) kudos/comments are always appreciated. also thanks for supporting my last fic, i got super overwhelmed by the amount of nice comments!!!


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